Staccato
by streetlights and music
Summary: I've heard this before. I know you. Have I heard this before? Have we met? Neku/Joshua, Post-Game.


**Word Count:** 2722.

**Warnings:** Post-game. Experimental writing style. _Lots_ of repetition. Use of present tense. Use of popular fanon concepts where Shibuya and the Composer (and subsequently, every person and city) have their own Song/Music. _NOT_ set in chronological order. Likely to be very confusing to some of you (due to the nonlinear and unconventional writing), and may require you to read everything again to grasp the whole story.

If you are irritated by pretentious shit like this (I know some people are), then this isn't for you.

* * *

_I've been waiting for you. Waiting. Waiting for-_

_Waiting for you to visit._

_Waiting for-_

_You._

_I've been waiting for-_

_For you._

_Waiting.  
_

_I've been waiting._

* * *

There is silence, so deafeningly loud that all Neku can do is scream.

He screams.

* * *

_I've been waiting for you. Waiting. Waiting for you to visit._

_I'll see you again, right?_

_See…_

_See you soon?_

* * *

Sometimes, Neku hears something. Something soft that flutters through the wind, like wind chimes. Slightly muted, but not soundless enough.

His headphones do nothing to drown the sounds out.

It's very subtle, like a whisper or a stray collection of notes. He doesn't quite understand it; he hears something like a montage of murmuring and hushed words, barely recognizable. He hears it blending with the white noise, camouflaging itself without even trying. It's as if it wants to be heard, and at the same time, it doesn't. But it's there, and Neku can't ignore it even if he wanted to. Not that he wanted to.

It takes Neku a while to figure out that he's been hearing one singular voice. He hears it in his head, an echo of someone with a foreign, musical lilt with the way he speaks. The voice never says anything intelligible; it often only emits sounds resembling laughter: a chuckle, a snort, a chortle, and something akin to a giggle. It drives Neku up the wall.

He thinks he's going crazy when, two weeks later, he starts hearing _music _floating through the city. Shibuya's Music, he supposes, if cities ever had their own theme song.

He hears that amused giggle again, and Neku nearly snaps his pencil in half with the way the voice responds to his thoughts.

* * *

He passes by Hachiko on his way home, in case he sees him passing by.

_(Him? Who is he waiting for?)_

He passes by Hachiko every day, rain or shine, in case he sees him passing by.

_(Who? Is he… waiting for someone?)_

* * *

_You're late._

_I've been waiting for you. Waiting. Waiting for you-_

_Why didn't you come? Why didn't you-_

… _Who?_

_Why was I waiting?_

* * *

Sometimes, Neku sees things.

Sometimes he sees fleeting colors. They never make sense to him, except that they do. He sees white, something featherlike and translucent and wispy. He sees violet – the kind that mesmerizes him and irritates him simultaneously for some reason. He often wants to punch someone in the face after that. But most of the time, he sees a unique color he couldn't produce with his watercolors; it's not exactly silver, and not exactly blond, but something in between that's not _quite_ a combination of both. Ashen-blond perhaps?

Sometimes he sees floating images in his head, extracted from the deep recesses of his mind. They are often hazy and blurred, unfocused except when he falls asleep and dreams of guns and death at three in the morning. He wakes up with only the flakes of them, not really remembering anything except that they evoke a strange combination of emotions inside: hurt, relief, anger, trust. There was a deep connection there, however fleeting.

He doesn't have a firm grasp on them; they slip through his fingers the moment he reaches out.

He draws them sometimes, hastily scrawls what little he could remember of his dreams and visions before they vanish from his memory. They are often sketchy at best; the details never come to him, and he doesn't trust himself to imagine what they could be. It doesn't feel authentic that way.

* * *

He passes by Hachiko on his way home, in case he sees him passing by.

_(When are you coming?)_

He passes by Hachiko every day, rain or shine, in case he sees him passing by.

_(Are you coming?)_

* * *

He meets him for the first time in a year as he makes his way past Hachiko.

"You bastard," Neku says through gritted teeth. "You couldn't even spare me a minute?"

Joshua gives an insufferable smile. "Silly Neku. I _am_ Shibuya. I'm always with you."

"Don't give me that."

"I'll let you punch me in the face," Joshua says. Then he giggles. "If you so insist."

Neku knows the Composer is just playing with him again, like he always does. He reaches out and tries to fist the front of Joshua's expensive Pegaso button-up, but he ends up reaching for his shoulder instead. He leans his weight into it, keeping his head down before Joshua could see his eyes (tired, relieved, desperate) and make some smart comment about them. "I was waiting, you know." His voice comes out soft, almost like a whisper.

Joshua tilts Neku's chin up, forcing them to meet eyes. Neku never liked seeing Joshua's eyes. He always felt naked, because he knows Joshua can unravel him – can break him apart and put him back together – if he looked hard enough. "I know," Joshua says. He leans in for a kiss.

Neku's breath hitches, and it's all he could do to not need this, to not keep this moment to himself. To not drown himself in this, because futures and pasts are not enough; the present is all there is, all there ever was, all that was ever his. He suppresses a strangled moan, feels Joshua smiling against his lips, and it's all he can do not to kiss back.

He kisses back.

* * *

_Why didn't you come? Why didn't you-_

* * *

"What'cha got there, Phones?" Mr. Hanekoma asks. He snatches the sketchbook from Neku's hands before the question could register in his brain. He looks distracted; he always feels like he's in a haze whenever he sees the colors and the images. They feel like distant memories, but he doesn't remember. Maybe he's just being paranoid. "Interesting choice of colors."

"They don't really mean anything," Neku says. The page Mr. Hanekoma is looking at doesn't contain anything remotely close to a sketch, but it's filled with splashes of violet and ashen-blond. Neku's still trying to get the shade of the latter color right. "They just… pop into my head sometimes."

Mr. Hanekoma whistles, his lips curving into a smile. "Heh, who would've thought. You said they pop into your head?" He flips through the other pages, and Neku flushes unaccountably without meaning to. It's not like there's anything to be embarrassed about – there's only one boy he's been sketching for the past four pages. It's hardly anything to get nervous for. He's got another sketchbook filled with sketches of Shiki and Rhyme.

Neku nods. "Yeah. They're a bit hazy though. I guess it's supposed to be a burst of inspiration, except they're not concrete enough."

Mr. Hanekoma's smile widens, and Neku feels like he knows something he doesn't.

* * *

Winter comes, winter goes. And so does spring and summer.

He passes by Hachiko on his way home, in case he sees him passing by.

_(Sees… who?)_

Time passes.

* * *

_Sing to me, Shibuya._

_Please, sing to me._

… _Please._

* * *

Joshua saunters into his bedroom quietly, and the only reason Neku notices him is because he's been waiting. He's always waiting.

_(I've been waiting for you. Waiting. Waiting for-)_

He wants to breathe the boy in, to sink into the Composer's Music and forget about the cacophonous noise of the world and just _be_. Joshua watches him curiously and doesn't utter a word.

"Hey Josh," Neku says. He's smiling; his eyes are wide and bright even under the shadows of his own bedroom because he has never been so _happy_. Never been so alive, so free. He's free! He's alive! And Joshua's with him tonight, and he's breathing everything in and it's all-

Joshua's eyes widen. "You're in love," he says quietly. The first time he's ever sounded uncertain.

"I feel alive," Neku says. He crawls closer until there's barely enough room between them. He's close enough that he can feel the other boy's body heat, can almost hear the threads of Music emanating from him. He's close enough that he can almost breathe the boy in – to breathe, and isn't that what he has always dreamed of doing? "I feel _alive_, Josh."

Joshua nods with eyes still wide, like he's not sure of what to do. Neku pulls him in and hears his Composer's music – a pronounced staccato; off-balanced, off-key, a steady stream of stray notes disrupting the harmony. "Hey," Neku says. "What's wrong?"

Joshua doesn't answer.

* * *

He never gets that ashen-blond color right. He tries to pull the color out of his head, tries to imagine the exact shade. But his mind comes up blank and empty. It's frustrating.

He tries sketching the boy's hair, tries to capture his smile, but it's all wrong wrong _wrong_.

He almost gives up on it. He shoves the sketchbook back to his closet because really. This is getting ridiculous.

* * *

He stops having dreams about him. He stares blankly at one point on the wall because he can no longer recall the exact hue of those violet eyes, or the ashen-blond hair that he still couldn't recreate with his watercolors.

He tries to call out one night, to reach out to Shibuya and grasp whatever it has to offer.

_Sing to me, Shibuya._

But the Music doesn't answer him.

For once, all Neku hears is s-i-l-e-n-c-e in the background.

Absent white noise.

He panics (why is he panicking?). He can't forget – he won't forget. He doesn't want to forget is he forgetting someone why can't he remember why didn't he come… who? _Don't do this to me, don't kill me, don't leave me, stay. Stay._

_Sing to me, Shibuya._

His headphones aren't enough to calm him down.

* * *

He passes by Hachiko on his way home, in case he sees him passing by.

He has this resigned feeling that he will never pass by.

_(Will never pass._

_Never pass._

_He will never-)_

* * *

His sketchbooks start piling up as the years pass. He has a closet dedicated to storing them, even if he hardly peeks through the pages of his first few. He keeps some of them at the very back; doesn't know why, it's not like he wants to forget whatever he drew there – what _did_ he draw there anyway? They must have been horrible. He couldn't be bothered to check; there must be a reason why he keeps them at the very back, hiding behind the two piles of sketchbooks in front. They must be collecting dust, he thinks.

He doesn't notice them disappear one by one. He can't be bothered to check. Can't be bothered.

* * *

Joshua is a good kisser. Neku can hardly complain; he's an addict, and Joshua's Song – his Music, his Sound, his Voice – is his fix. His high.

He melts into his Sound, feels Joshua soothe all his worries away. He sinks and drowns and it's all overwhelming, but he doesn't want to come up for air. Doesn't want to breathe, unless it's Joshua he's breathing in.

His Music is comforting. It's all Neku can hear.

_(What is this feeling?)_

He feels elated, surreal – there is no heaven or hell or death or time. "Stop thinking," Joshua whispers. Neku listens. He doesn't think, doesn't analyze; doesn't let himself be afraid. He's scared that he might forget to breathe, but Joshua's holding him. Joshua's here, erasing his fears and dreams and memories until they are all meaningless. Neku closes his eyes, feels the Composer's Music flowing through him, pulling him, tangling him into their threads. He can hardly speak; he doesn't know how.

_(Why is he here?)_

The Composer's Music is enticing, and Shibuya's Music blends with it. They sync in harmony; rewriting time and space, reality and memories and people.

_(Who is he?)_

Neku's eyes snap open, and he pulls away from Joshua.

_(What is happening?)_

"You're making me forget," Neku says in realization, panic rising up in his voice. Joshua reaches out; Neku pulls away. "Don't. Don't make me forget, Joshua. Don't re- stop! Let go!" He thrashes about, but Joshua holds him down. He was never able to fight Joshua, never able to go against him even if he wanted to. He had never wanted to.

"Keep still, dear. This will be the last time," Joshua says. He forcefully pulls Neku in and crashes their lips together for one last time. Neku struggles, but Joshua has him with an iron grip. He can feel him forcing his Song into his ears, and all Neku can do is think _stop stop stop i don't want this don't do this to me don't make me forget i can't forget i can't i_-

Joshua's Music escalates into a gradual crescendo, washing over Neku until his Music melds with his. Shibuya's Composer pulls at the frayed ends, shreds the unnecessary threads and harsh notes until everything is rewritten. Everything is perfect, as it should be.

_(Why?_

_Why?_

_Why why why why why?)_

Neku can feel himself falling back, falling back back back…

"Just add this to your list of things not to forgive me of," Joshua says. And he disappears.

* * *

It has been three years. Three. Fucking. Years.

_(Three years since–)_

He passes by Hachiko every day, in case-

In case… what?

* * *

_stop stop stop._

_i don't want this don't do this to me don't make me forget._

_i can't forget i can't i_-

_don't do this to me, don't kill me, don't leave me, stay. _

_stay._

* * *

_I've been waiting for you. Waiting. Waiting for you to visit._

* * *

He meets him for the first time as he makes his way past Hachiko.

The rain is pouring hard, and really, he doesn't need to pass by Hachiko every day. He doesn't even know why he bothers. But he's there, and he's wet, and he's hiding his sketchbook under his Tiger Punks shirt because damn everything to hell if his sketches get ruined. His umbrella lay hopelessly on the ground, broken.

He's about to make a run for it when something looms over his head. He can't feel the raindrops anymore, and when he turns around, he sees-

"Hello there," says the stranger. He's smiling, standing a bit too close because his frilly purple parasol isn't big enough to leave space between them. Who carries a frilly freakin' parasol around anyway? "The wet look doesn't suit you."

Neku doesn't know who he is, doesn't think he's familiar at all in the slightest, but something sets off his warning bells the moment they lock eyes. Neku stands there under the frilly parasol, frozen.

He has never seen such violet eyes before. They look strange… and comforting to get lost in. They look kind of majestic, actually; powerful and haughty.

Haughty. Now where did that thought come from? Neku doesn't even know the kid.

The stranger smirks, amusement dancing in his violet eyes. "The name's Yoshiya Kiryu. Friends and family call me Joshua. I suppose I'll let you call me Joshua too," the stranger says. He gives Neku a once over. "Cute, but you could be a little more trendy. Are you in a hurry? Your umbrella seems to be broken. I can walk you to the station, if you'd like."

"Uh… thanks," Neku mumbles, following Joshua towards the station. He's not one to decline such an offer, especially in this weather, even if there's something about the kid's smirk, his whole demeanor, that just… grates.

The frilly parasol isn't big enough for the two of them, so Neku has to move in closer than he would have liked. He touches Joshua's arm briefly, and suddenly, he can hear something.

Music.

Neku reaches out to touch him, and there it is. He can hear it, something like a Song; something like a distant memory. He can hear it playing, soft and quiet and flowing; almost like a familiar tune. Something he can't remember, can't quite place a name on. He strains his ears and tries to focus on the sound, but it fades away before he can listen closely.

Joshua stops and turns his head towards him. "Is something the matter, Neku?"

_I've heard this before. I know you._

_Have I heard this before?_

_Have we met?_

Neku looks up at him, at his eyes. Looks into his eyes and thinks. Tries to remember what he heard. This person doesn't look the least bit familiar, but that Sound. That Music. "Have we met before?"

"Hm," Joshua hums. "I don't believe we have. This is the first time we met. You don't look all that familiar."

"Oh." Neku pulls his hand away, unable to hide the disappointment in his eyes. The Music is gone now, completely. As if he had just imagined it.

Joshua curves his lips in that arrogant smile of his. "Oh!" he exclaims, his fingers reaching up to play with a lock of ashen-blond hair. Ashen-blond. Neku wonders if it's possible to recreate such a color with his watercolors. "I can't say I'm all that interested… but I'll go ahead and ask, for the sake of convenience. Do you have a name?"

"… Neku."

"Hee hee. Charming." And Joshua giggles. _Fucking giggles._ "Would you like to go out on a date with me, dear?"

* * *

_don't leave me, stay. _

_stay._

* * *

**A/N:** And now I'm dead.

I'm not sure if I _really_ like the outcome, but I'm satisfied enough to not bother editing the hell out of this. This one took a lot of work. I'm sure the nonlinear approach would confuse some of you. I hope someone, even just one person, gets this though. I think it's pretty straightforward, but then again, I'm the author. I _would_ be inclined to think that.

If you'll excuse me, I hear my Reaper Review calling. Like a bolt from the blue~


End file.
